


A Walk in the Woods

by Ginger_Cat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Freeform, In fact Sherlock does too, Isolation, John milks a cow, M/M, Memory of traumatic events, PTSD, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Stream of Consciousness, pre-Series 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_Cat/pseuds/Ginger_Cat
Summary: After a series of traumatic events, John has left London in self-imposed isolation. Permanently.There is, of course, one man who might succeed in bringing him home.(Rated “E” for chapters to come.)





	1. Chopping

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this story is written in a different style than the others I have posted here; very stream-of-consciousness, very little dialogue. 
> 
> It is a fantasy that I have from time to time, to escape from everyone and everything I know and to live alone. Therefore this story is quite personal, and therefore I have very little idea of how good it is. 
> 
> Still, I sincerely hope that you enjoy it.

John raised the axe, and let his top hand slide to meet the other at the end of the handle as it came down from its arc.  

A _crack_ sounded into the woods. Though today John noticed it was faintly muted, for some of the noise had been absorbed by the even blanket of snow on the ground and the fog that rested just below the treetops. He sized up the two pieces of wood that had fallen on either side of the stump and decided the one on the left would do but the one on the right could use another split. This particular tree had been larger than the others so he’d had to hack at the pieces two or three times to get them down to the appropriate size for his stove. He was reaching the end of the stack however, and the few remaining pieces would each only need one swing more.

John picked up the left piece and heaved it into the wheelbarrow and picked up the right and set it back on the stump, angling it just so to make sure it would receive the head of the axe at the right spot. In the beginning it had taken some time to learn where the cut would be placed not only because John was unfamiliar with the weight and length of the axe and the size of his arc but because, as a man who had spent his life in the city, he’d not practice aiming an axe before. There was much cursing and soreness the first few weeks as John learned how to swing and what muscles to use and which not to, and how to strengthen them and how to take all the training he’d had as a surgeon and a marksman and channel it into the act of chopping wood.

John raised the axe again and brought it down and split the wood in half, perfectly.

“Impressive.”

John looked up into the mist and saw a tall figure in a black coat standing in the road in front of him. He realized then that the sound of the wood being chopped was not the only sound the snow had muted. It was the first snow of the season and he’d forgot how footsteps were nearly silent in the winter. It made hunting for game nearly impossible, which was why John hunted in the fall so that he could keep meat in the house throughout the snowy months. That first year, he’d nearly starved. It was impossible to be a vegetarian in the woods.

John took in the sight of the man before him without a word. He wasn’t surprised to see him. He’d always expected this to happen someday but perhaps not that it would take so long. Sherlock was still thin and pale, John could tell even under the stocking cap and puffy coat and thick trousers and boots. But surprisingly he was dressed appropriately for the weather. The snow on the road would have been too deep to drive through so he would have had to walk the ten miles it took from the main road to get to John’s place. There was no one to plow the road as only John was at the end of it and John certainly wasn’t going to do it. That was the whole point, to be secluded. To be alone. And Sherlock must have known all of that before he left or he would not have bought cold-weather clothes to walk in the snow with.

John had taken in the sight of him and now he was finished. He bent down and picked up the freshly split pieces of wood and tossed them into the wheelbarrow along with the others. He set up the next log on the stump and raised the axe above his shoulder and brought it down again.

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Crack._

Sherlock had got closer but hadn’t said anything more. John didn’t look at him but he felt his presence like a tree or a bush or a pile of wood under a tarp, a fixture in the environment and nothing more with no bearing on John’s work. He could watch if he liked. It was no concern of John’s.

John set up the next log on the stump.

“Can I help?”

John stopped and looked up. He had been waiting to see which approach Sherlock would take. Apparently he was going for an indirect one. Well, that was alright. John thought he might at least get some help on the property before he sent the detective back the way he came. He hoisted the axe forward and out and Sherlock came over and took it, and looked deeply into John’s eyes. John knew that behind his own he was anxiously deducing John’s reaction to everything. Now that he was closer John saw that his coat was not black as he first thought but green, a deep green, and filled with goose down by the puff of it. His trousers _were_ black though and so were his boots and gloves and his hat was grey. John couldn’t see any curls poking out from underneath the hat, just a bit of hair on the nape of his neck. He wondered if Sherlock had spent time meticulously tucking them in or if his hair was shorter now. Without the curls showing his face looked more severe. Older.

And well. He was older after all.

Sherlock assumed a solid stance and took deep breaths, in and out and in again. The fog from his lungs puffed out and up in a cloud as he reared back and swung the axe around and down onto the stump. His top hand slid and met his other at the end of the handle as John’s had done, and the wood split. It did not split directly in half, but it split, and John was a little impressed.

“Good,” John said. It was the first thing he’d said to Sherlock and Sherlock started a little. “Here.” John took off his deerskin gloves and offered them to him. “I’ll be in the barn when you’re finished.” He still had to give the cow her second milking and now if Sherlock would chop the wood he also had time to finish weatherizing the pipes in the barn and in the crawlspace of the house before it got too dark.

Sherlock looked at him and took the gloves. His eyes were still the same sterling silver and John noticed that they reflected a bit of green today because of the coat. Sherlock nodded his assent and replaced the gloves on his hands with the ones John had given him, and then bent over to pick up the larger piece of wood that needed another split and set it on the stump.

John turned away and walked toward the barn. He could hear behind him the muted _crack_ of the axe echoing off the trees.


	2. Cooking

John watched the steaming milk squirt into the pail. He’d not expected Sherlock to last so long out at the woodpile alone. He admired his dedication. In the old days Sherlock would have thrown a tantrum by now. He would have stomped all the way into the barn and demanded John do whatever it was he came here to ask him to do. Move back to London or help him with a case or however he wanted to phrase it. He wouldn’t have stooped to such tedious work for this length of time.

John finished milking the cow and then checked the pipes in the barn and in the house. He reinforced a couple with the insulation he’d purchased the month prior in preparation for the winter. By the time he was done it was getting dark and he went back to the barn to feed the cow and the chickens. He put out food for the cat as well, though he hadn’t seen it in a few days. It was probably off feasting on the mice that had come inside from the cold. Good, thought John. That was the only reason to have a cat anyway.

As he was locking up the barn Sherlock appeared from round the back. He moved a bit stiffly but didn’t seem too sore. “All finished,” he said. The fog from his breath nearly glowed in the twilight. He handed over the axe and John set it just inside the door of the barn and grabbed another pair of gloves from the workbench.

“We’ll need to stack it before it snows again,” he said and Sherlock followed him back to the wood pile.

Together they made several trips and brought the wood to the woodshed along the side of the house and stacked it tall until it reached the ceiling. Then John shut the door and wheeled the remaining half-barrow full up to the house. He opened the front door and stepped inside, taking off his shoes in the entryway. “Come on,” he said to Sherlock, who was still standing outside and watching him. “Before we let too much heat out.” The house was only heated by the stove, and while wood was not scarce it was time consuming and exhausting to prepare and John was not keen to waste any of it.

Sherlock got inside and John shut the door. He mimicked John and stripped off his boots and his coat. His trousers had buckled suspenders and these he unbuckled and shrugged them off to reveal a thick knitted jumper and jeans. John didn’t think he’d ever seen Sherlock in jeans before and he caught himself staring a little at the sight. Then Sherlock brushed off his hat and John saw his hair _was_ shorter, though there was still a suggestion of curl at the ends. Sherlock ran a hand back and forth through it a few times to get it unstuck from his head.

By this time John had finished undressing and he hung his things on the coat rack next to the door and then went to the kitchen. It was not a real kitchen, but rather a long countertop on one side of the main room with a sink and oven and a small refrigerator. A shelf above it held John’s cups, plates, bowls, cooking utensils. He normally cooked over the wood stove, although he had a portable electric burner too. However this he rarely used and only if he was making tea at the same time as his food.

It had been a cold day of hard work and John wanted some tea with his meal so he ran water into the kettle and set it up on the portable burner on the counter. He took the last can of soup from the pack of twelve he’d purchased over the summer from the junction shop and opened the refrigerator and got a few eggs. Most nights he had a mish-mash of food for dinner and tonight would be no exception just because Sherlock had decided to be there. “Would you like to eat?” he asked, out of courtesy. There was no reason for him not to have manners toward a guest. Especially when that guest had just helped chop wood for him.

“Yes please.”

John turned around sharply at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, for it had come from the opposite end of the house than he’d expected. He’d thought that Sherlock would still be standing by the door and not knowing what to do with himself but instead he was crouched in front of the stove and loading wood with a little kindling and moss from the box John kept on the floor beside it. Sherlock opened the flue and struck a match on the brick hearth. It hissed into flame and he lit the moss in a few places and threw the rest of the match inside. Then he swung the glass door halfway closed so that air could still draw in from the outside and stood up and turned around. “Need help with dinner?” he asked.

John saw the faint orange flicker of the fire catching onto the kindling. He blinked at it. “You can finish the tea,” he said. Then he turned back to the counter and opened the can of soup and spooned it into the sauce pot, then put on the lid and took it over to the stove. While it heated he would use the electric burner to make the eggs. He took out a jar of butter from the refrigerator and put some into the frying pan, then took an onion from the basket next to the sink and made a mental note to take a trip to the cellar the next day to replenish his stock. He would also need to get some meat from the freezer to thaw. Now that the snows were here there would be no going in and out to the junction shop and he would have to eat the food that he’d saved all summer and fall. He’d had a good canning crop this year, it was a hot summer and the vegetables were plentiful. Canning was tedious work but in a way he loved it and loved the winter months most because in those he was completely self-sufficient.

John chopped the onion very fine with his knife and scraped it into the pan which was now sizzling with the heated butter. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Sherlock close the door to the stove and come over and get two cups from the shelf. The detective searched around until he found the tea bags John kept in the tin and put one in each of the cups and filled them with the boiled water. The steam came up and thick in the cold air.

“Sorry, no sugar,” said John as he stirred the onions with a wooden spoon. “There’s a little honey left in the jar above the fridge.” He nodded to it and Sherlock looked over. John had lost two bee colonies this year but he still had enough to produce the little honey he used. It was worrisome though that the bees were dying, not because he liked honey on his toast from time to time but because he needed the bees to pollinate his garden. It was an epidemic due to disease and pesticide and John thought he could avoid it out here in the woods, but perhaps he was not far enough away still.

“That’s alright, I take it black now,” Sherlock replied. While he waited for the tea to brew he turned around and leaned back against the counter and took in the space before him. He scratched an itch on one foot with the other foot and John saw he was wearing thick wool socks that had got bunched up around his ankles.

John heard the soup beginning to boil and went to the stove. He lifted the lid and gave it a stir with the wooden spoon that he was still holding from the onions. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him and he knew it was coming, now. Sherlock was going to ask him whatever it was he came here to ask. But instead suddenly John heard the creak of the front door and turned his head and saw Sherlock loading up his arms with the remaining wood from the wheelbarrow. He shut the door with a socked foot and carried the load to the basket beside the moss-box.

John turned away and stirred the soup again and tried not to watch the other man or think about why he still hadn’t brought up the reason for his coming here. Or how he knew how to chop wood properly or to light a fire in the stove and why he’d forsaken his fashionable attire for nondescript cold-weather clothing that would be durable in a climate such as this. Why his hair was shorter and why he hadn’t—

No. John was determined not to think about it. That’s what Sherlock wanted, to get into his head and drive him mad until he breached the subject himself. But what Sherlock didn’t know was that John didn’t actually care, not really. That the reason he’d left London was still the reason he’d stayed away and that reason wasn’t going to change. If Sherlock wanted to waste his time waiting to provoke John into a fit then he could do it. He could just do it.

John went back to the pan on the burner and cracked four eggs into it and scrambled them up with the onions. Sherlock had finished stacking the wood and came back to the kitchen to remove the two tea bags from the cups. “Compost,” John told him. “Under the sink.” Sherlock found the aluminum pot where John kept scraps of plant matter for his garden. As the pot got full John would dump it into the caged compost pile out back and this he would draw from to mix with his planting soil in the spring.

Sherlock stood up again and put both cuppas on the small folding table next to the window. He got down two bowls and two plates from the shelf and asked if the soup was done. John glanced back at it and saw it was steaming through the lid he’d placed on the top at an angle and said it was. Sherlock went and took it from the stove with a towel wrapped around the handles and set it on the counter. He divided the soup evenly into the bowls and set these on the table as well with a spoon in each. The eggs were done now too so John plated them and brought them over and the two of them sat down to eat.

John didn’t look at Sherlock directly but he saw him eat everything that he was given and drink all of his tea. He thought it was the most he’d ever seen Sherlock eat in one sitting. He almost said something but caught himself in time. That was what Sherlock wanted and John would not do it, not to spite him but because he didn’t actually care. If Sherlock ate full meals now it was no concern of his and it didn’t affect him one way or another. He would not say anything because any words he used would be meaningless and only to fill the void of silence, which was a void that John was comfortable with now. They could sit and eat in silence and if Sherlock was uncomfortable then it wasn’t John’s problem.

John took a drink of tea to wash down the rest of his supper and felt much better. He’d won some sort of battle within himself and proved that he was a different man after all and not the man Sherlock came here to find. He almost felt a little sad for Sherlock to have come all this way for nothing. Almost.

The rest of the meal passed without a word and when it was over and it was time for John’s shower. In the summer months he bathed more frequently and swam in the pond sometimes, and sometimes went down to the river. But in the winter there was often no electricity and less need for washing as he didn’t garden or hunt in those months. He had a small generator that would run the pump for the well and the electric water heater but gasoline was limited so he liked to use it only for necessities. In the winter he bathed twice per week, once with a sponge bath of water heated over the stove and once in a real bath.

But the snows had only started and the electricity was working so John could shower every night still. Although his water heater was small and it heated slowly, so Sherlock would not get to bathe until the morning if John showered tonight. He felt a little badly about it because Sherlock had done most of the wood chopping, and that was harder work than John had done wrapping the pipes and caring for the animals. “Would you like to shower?” John asked, making a decision.

Sherlock had been looking out the window at the last bit of light fading above the trees but now he blinked back to John’s direction. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “That would be nice,” he said finally.

John gave him a nod and stood up and headed for the bathroom. “Towels are here,” he pointed to the shelf. “You’ll get about ten minutes of hot water, so just keep that in mind.” _Because your showers take forever_ , he almost finished. They did, or used to anyway from what he remembered. Sherlock would be under the water for thirty minutes at least and John would have no hot water of his own if he had been planning to take a shower after. Sherlock would claim he lost track of time thinking about cases but John thought it might have had something to do with the four-treatment hair wash he used. But John didn’t say any of that or bring it up because it happened a long time ago to another man in another life and it wasn’t relevant anymore. There was a two-in-one bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap, and John hadn’t seen Sherlock bring in a backpack of any supplies so what he had would have to do.

John stopped for a moment and thought about that. Sherlock had trekked ten miles to John’s isolated cabin in the snow and hadn’t brought anything with him except what might have been in his pockets. It was very odd.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock and stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

While Sherlock showered John cleaned the dishes from supper and then sat in his chair and stared at the fire. He saw it needed another log so he put one in and then sat down again and rocked back and forth in the chair absentmindedly. It was the kind of chair that rocked and reclined fully and John had spent many nights asleep in it during the winter because it was next to the fire. It was where Sherlock would have to sleep tonight unless John gave him his bed. There was no sofa and John’s bed was very narrow so they wouldn’t be able to share. Not that he would want to anyway. They’d had to share a bed once while away on a case, and Sherlock had stolen all of the covers. He’d wrapped himself up in them tightly so that when John woke up freezing cold he had to grasp them with both hands and slowly pull so that Sherlock would unroll without waking. In those days it was rare for Sherlock to sleep at all and John was always trying to coax him into it, so he hadn’t wanted to wake him. If it hadn’t been so unbearably cold in the room he might have just given up on it altogether.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom then in his same jeans and jumper, and John wondered how long he planned to stay and wear those same clothes. He must not have thought he would be here long or surely he would have brought a change. Washing clothes took time and effort and fuel as well so John didn’t do it all the time. Reflecting on all of this now he felt slightly embarrassed. He was sure he smelled atrocious. But the feeling was fleeting, John didn’t really care about how he smelled. Sherlock had come to his home uninvited and if he had to smell John’s unpleasant body odor as a consequence then that was no fault of John’s.

Sherlock came over to sit cross legged in front of the fire. He padded over still drying his hair and when he sat he put on his wool socks before he crossed his legs and bent his head towards the heat. They sat there for a while staring at the fire and saying nothing. Afterward John started to feel tired so he stood and put another log on and announced that he was going to bed. “You can sleep in the chair, if you like,” he said.

Sherlock looked up at him and then at the chair and then stood up and sat in it. He laid back his head and rocked a few times. “Comfortable,” he said. Then, “Goodnight, John.”

It was the first time Sherlock had said his name. It sounded much too familiar, and John felt a rush of emotion. He wasn’t sure what emotion it was but it rushed loud into his ears and eyes before it passed. When it had finally, he nodded and said, “Goodnight.” Then he went to his room and got under the quilt and lay there all night without ever falling asleep.


	3. Walking

In the morning John could tell that more snow had fallen even before he’d got out of bed. There was a certain silence that accompanied fresh snowfall. John could hear it now. He sat up and folded back the quilt and put on his socks and jeans and a jumper over his vest. He made the bed and then quietly opened the door in case Sherlock was sleeping. He wasn’t though. Instead the detective turned his head from where he sat at the table, evidently watching the snow fall over a steaming mug of tea. He saw John and smiled.

John felt very strange again. He suddenly couldn’t breathe and had to get out of the cabin. He really didn’t care if Sherlock was here and drinking tea and that he smiled at him in the morning with the cool winter light coming in through the window. He didn’t care about it but it bothered him because he lived here for a reason, and because of what Sherlock had promised him. John hadn’t expected him to keep that promise but he had done for four years and so John had relaxed into his new life. And now he felt himself unraveling even though he didn’t care about any of it.

But that’s what Sherlock did to a person and John hated him, he just hated him.

“I’m going to milk the cow,” said John, and got on his snow trousers and his boots and his coat and hat and gloves.

Sherlock watched him for a while and then stood up and put his cuppa in the sink. “I can do that, if you like.”

John looked up. It was one thing to chop wood and to build a fire in a stove but it was quite another to milk an animal. Milking was a delicate skill, John had learned it from the man that had sold him the cow. The man had took one look at him and knew that he did not know how to. _You ever milk a cow before?_ he’d asked, already knowing the answer, and John just looked at him with the rope halter clutched in his hands like a lifeline and the man chuckled and said _here, let me show you_. The man was gruff and weathered and had sun spots on his face and gnarled, wrinkled hands and his teeth were very bad. He was notoriously crotchety around the junction shop but now he brought two buckets and overturned them and sat patiently next to John and was gentle with him while he showed him the skill. John was grateful but he knew then how pathetic he must have seemed to other people when even the town grump felt too badly to mock him.

John couldn’t imagine where Sherlock had learned to milk a cow because there wasn’t a scenario he could think of where that would be relevant for a case. He was curious however and his anger had left him in his surprise.

“Alright,” he said.

Sherlock smiled again and John waited for him to get on his trousers and boots and coat and hat and gloves so that they could go out to the barn. John was still very skeptical about the whole thing and thought Sherlock was bluffing this time. He was prepared to be amused by his failure. When they got to the barn he stood at the door to her stall with his arms folded and watched.

But Sherlock pet the cow and spoke softly to her, and took off his gloves, at the last moment he sat on the stool and milked her. He turned his head and looked sideways at John with a cheeky smirk as if to say, _You’re forgetting, I’m Sherlock Holmes. I can do anything_. It made John’s chest feel tight. He clenched his teeth together and spoke through them. “Yes. Well. Good. I’ll go and get some meat to thaw for supper later.” He knew Sherlock was watching as he turned around and left the barn because he could feel his gaze and because he didn’t hear any sound of milk being squirted into the pail.

But John didn’t go to get the meat. Instead he went for a walk in the woods.

The air was very cold and there was a slight breeze and the snow had just stopped falling. It smelled cool and fresh and sweet like new snow always did, and John inhaled and felt much better already. He took the path through the forest that he took sometimes when he wanted to think. He’d taken it less and less over the years as thinking gradually waned and gave over to just being. John had forgot all about the thinking, until now when he’d started to do it again. It was so much easier not to.

The snow compacted under his feet as he made his way through the trees. The path was invisible in the snow but John knew where it was because he recognized the landmarks. He eventually came to a clearing in the wood where the pond was in front of him. He couldn’t see it because it was frozen over top and the snow had fallen on it, so it looked just like a pristine, blanketed meadow. It was very beautiful and John looked at it through the fog of his breath and felt again the calm that nature had brought him over time.

The pond had not existed when John first bought the property. Instead of a pond there was a small creek that ran through the trees and to the river several miles inland. But John had always wanted a house with a pond and thought it might be nice to have somewhere to swim close by in the summer months and to sit by and have his tea in the morning. So he’d hired an excavator to come and dig out a pond for him. They’d dammed up the creek and diverted the stream and then dug it out. John had wanted to keep fish in it and so they’d gone down very deep. That way the water would stay cool enough in the summer and warm enough in the winter so that the fish would not die. After it was dug they opened the first dam to let water through and fill up the pond, and then John had put fish in it and had thoroughly enjoyed his swimming that summer.

John continued walking around the perimeter of the pond to where there was another path on the other side. This path he made during the second summer and it went a ways farther to the river. He came to the entrance of the path when he heard his name shouted behind him.

“John! Wait! Stop!”

Sherlock’s voice was pleading and John sighed. He knew that Sherlock would talk about everything now, because John had showed his weakness of emotion by going for a walk instead of to get the meat. It was what Sherlock had been waiting for and John had given it to him inadvertently. He supposed it would happen eventually. The great Sherlock Holmes could do anything, even make John care about things he no longer cared about.

John didn’t know what he could say to make Sherlock understand but he knew that ignoring him anymore was going to be useless. He turned around and saw Sherlock coming toward him. But to his surprise, Sherlock was not walking along the perimeter as he had done. Instead, he was heading straight across the pond.


	4. Racing

When John first moved to the cabin, he had a dog. It was a given that if he was going to hunt and live alone that he needed a dog to help him and keep him company. He wanted to be alone but a dog did not count and he’d very much enjoyed having it there to talk to. He especially enjoyed how it couldn’t talk back but rather looked at him happily and wagged its tail as dogs are want to do. He was very fond of the dog and very glad of the company out there in the wilderness.

The dog was a bird dog and so was very energetic but very loyal and it followed John everywhere. But always at a distance. Its breed had been trained to zig zag back and forth over a large area to investigate the possibility of a bird nest. If it found one it would immediately stop and go very still facing the direction of the nest and sometimes it would even lift up a front paw in a true “point.” So when John went for his walks, as he did often at the beginning, the dog would be running back and forth through the trees and when they came to the pond it would run willfully ahead, around the perimeter. Except for during the winter; when the snow came and the pond froze over for the first time, the dog ran into the forest and out across the frozen pond instead.

When the ice broke and the dog fell through, it was so quick that John thought he’d imagined it. He’d imagined it and the dog would come running out of the forest with its tongue lapping happily at the air on the side of its mouth. But he heard the splashing and saw the dog’s head bob above the hole in the ice and he knew it was true. The dog had fallen through the ice and it was going to die. The water was cold and deep and the dog would not be able to get its footing to climb out. The ice was not yet thick and would keep breaking off until the dog tired and drowned.

John knew all about the dangers of people rescuing animals from life threatening situations. In the war some of the soldiers had had dogs and cats and these were to be left behind if there was a bombing or shooting or if they got into an area where there was a potential IED. An animal life was not equivalent to a human life. But this dog. This dog was different. It was innocent and good and kind and it kept John company in his isolation, and now it was going to drown in the pond that John had built. The death would be his fault just like the rest was his fault and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t let one more innocent thing die because of him. So he got it into his head that if he couldn’t save the dog then he didn’t deserve to live.

But John was not stupid enough to jump in after it, so instead he ran to the tractor that he’d parked along the other side of the pond where he’d attempted to cut out the river trail before the snows had set in unexpectedly. He ran to it and brushed aside the snow and found the buckets of tools he kept on the back and in one of these was an orange extension cord. He pulled out the cord and ran back to the pond’s edge where he could hear the dog still struggling. He tied the cord around a stump at the edge of the ice, then he tied the other end tightly around his waist because he knew that if he fell into the water it would be easy to lose the cord. He called to the dog that he was coming and then stepped out onto the pond.

He got halfway across before the ice cracked and he fell into the water.

John had been in cold water before but nothing that took his breath away like the frigid water of the pond. For a moment he thought he had blacked out from the shock of it but it was only because the water was so dark underneath the ice and snow where no light could get in. His clothes were very heavy and wet and when he managed to raise his head above the water to gasp they pulled him down again. At once John knew that he did not want to die himself. Not out here, not like this, in a pond of his own making. He felt for the extension cord around his waist. His hands were already numbing but he could still feel it and he pulled up on it so that he could hang on with his head above the water. The ice in front of him broke and broke but eventually he pulled himself far enough forward that he was able to get back up on the ice and climb out. The dog had stopped splashing in the water. John stood and undid the knot of the cord around his waist and walk up the path to the cabin. He did not look back.

All this John thought of as he watched Sherlock cross the pond and fall through the ice without a chance for John to shout out any kind of warning. It happened as suddenly as with the dog and John felt a suffocating fear in his heart.

_“Sherlock!”_

John’s voice echoed through the trees even as the snow tried to mute it. He nearly ran out onto the ice but he stopped himself because he remembered what had happened last time, that he’d fallen in and only the extension cord lifeline had saved him. He whipped around and surely it would still be there—yes, there was the stump. John ran up to it and brushed away the snow until he saw it, still orange under four years of dirt and leaves. He pulled it up and it was still tied tightly around the stump but immediately he knew it wasn’t long enough to reach the spot where Sherlock had fallen. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “Shit!”

Meanwhile Sherlock was splashing and the ice around him was breaking as he tried to climb out, and John heard him gasping his breaths as he tried to get enough air in the cold.

“I’m coming Sherlock! I’m coming!” John chanted and his teeth chattered with adrenaline. He could not just walk across the ice to him because he might fall himself and then they would both be in mortal danger. Sherlock would be able to survive for a few minutes at least so he made the decision to run back to the barn. He knew where there was a length of rope that could be tied onto the extension cord. “Hang on, Sherlock. I’ll be right back!” John shouted and raced around the perimeter. He heard Sherlock make a groaning noise that sounded a lot like “John” but he didn’t turn around to listen because he knew that for every second he waited the danger of Sherlock drowning grew exponentially.

John raced back up the path through the trees and into the barn to his work bench. However the length of rope was not there and the John remembered he’d used it to secure the last load of hay when he’d brought it in the truck. He ran out to the truck and looked in the bed, and then in the bench seat and behind the bench, but he still couldn’t find it. He cursed aloud and felt tears of frustration on his face. “Where are you?” he screamed and ran back to the barn to see what else he could use. He passed the cow’s stall and doubled back because he saw the long rope lead that he used to hook to the cow’s halter in the summertime when he moved her between pastures.

He threw open the door to the stall. The cow bayed at him from the corner, her eyes wild at sensing his anxiety. He grabbed the lead from where it rested coiled on the wall and ran back down the path and to the pond.

As soon as his vision cleared the trees he sought out the spot where Sherlock had fallen. The ice was broken in a long line where he had tried to make his way to shore but the pond was large and deep and Sherlock had been in the water for nearly fifteen minutes. John could tell he was exhausted. His arms rested on the ice and his face was turned up toward the sky and it was barely out of the water. The ice beneath one arm was cracking and the arm fell in so Sherlock shuffled to the side to get it back on the surface. He was trying to keep his head above water because he had no strength left to climb out on his own. John shouted and waved the rope as he skidded down the hill and back around to the stump where the extension cord was tied. “Just hang on Sherlock, I’m coming, hang on!” and he grabbed the end of the cord and one end of the rope and tied them together securely. He stood up and looped the rope around his waist and tied it as he walked toward the edge of the ice.

“Over th-there,” Sherlock said, and his voice was strained and exhausted. He blinked slowly and took a shaky breath. “Left. Y-your left.” He wheezed and rallied another breath. “It’s thicker.”

John went to the left and slowly stepped out onto the ice. “You’re going to get a nice long bath when we get back, okay?” he said, taking another small step and then another. The snow was in miniature drifts over the surface so John could not see where the ice was thickest. He stepped and his heart pounded and he talked to Sherlock to keep them both calm. “A nice bath and we’ll build a fire and warm you up.”

“Ok-kay,” said Sherlock, bobbing slightly in the water as he kicked his legs to stay afloat.

John’s voice cracked. “I’ll burn down the whole bloody house.”

The good thing about it was, that unlike the dog, Sherlock weighed more than John and so had broken through the ice at a thicker point than John would have done. John took it carefully across the pond and when he got close he lay down on the ice to spread out his weight. “Grab my hand,” he said and reached out as he shimmied forward.

“I can’t,” Sherlock said. “I can’t feel my hands. I can’t—“ And just like that his head was pulled under the water.

“No!” John roared, and lurched forward, and as he reached out to try to grab his hand the ice broke under his elbows and he sunk in belly first.

The shock of the cold was even worse than John remembered. But he forced himself to concentrate and he surfaced his head and drew in breath. Sherlock’s head hadn’t come up still so John took as deep a breath as he could and dove into the blackness. He opened his eyes under water and they screamed in pain. But he kept them open and by the dim light through the two holes in the ice he saw Sherlock still attempting to struggle, although he was moving slowly and was weighed down by his clothes. John swam underwater and underneath him and tried to push him up and back toward the shore.

But the thing about being under water and in the cold and dark was that John’s senses were deprived and couldn’t tell if his efforts were paying off. He was running out of air and kept pushing and pushing and kicking and then suddenly he knew with certain clarity that they were both going to die. He would drown in the pond and Sherlock too and what a stupid, stupid way for them to go. It was so incredibly stupid and worthless that it was almost comical. John felt almost like laughing as his chest spasmed with the desire to breathe. He pushed and he kicked—

But suddenly there was nothing to push and kick any longer and John choked up on his grip on the rope and pulled himself out of the water. His head broke the surface and he cried out as warm air hit his lungs. He pulled himself up onto the thicker ice where Sherlock was lying, his feet still dangling in the water. John rolled him over and saw his face was too pale with ice and snow in his hair and blue lips and blue veins in his cheeks. “Sh-Sh-Sher—“ John tried, but he was shaking so badly that he couldn’t get the word out. “Up. Up!”

He somehow managed to stand and half drag him all the way to shore. They were breathing heavily and Sherlock collapsed on the ground while John took off his own jumper. “Get undressed,” John commanded and at the same time started to do it for him as Sherlock was clearly incapable of doing it himself. He pulled off his coat and unbuckled his jeans and pulled them down and took of his jumper and vest. Sherlock was now half naked in the snow with his jeans bunched up on the tops of his boots around his ankles. John took a pocket knife out of his jacket where he kept it always and cut them away. Sherlock was breathing shallowly and he’d stopped shivering. That was a bad sign. “Come on,” John said and leaned down to put Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder. “I can’t carry you all the way, you’re going to have to help me.”

He gathered his strength and stood up roughly with Sherlock’s nearly dead weight hanging on his neck. He wasn’t helping at all and fell forward. John splayed out as he tried to keep him from falling completely onto the ground.

“Sherlock,” said John and his voice was pleading. “Sherlock I can’t carry you and we have to get to the house. We have to go. Please.” He tried lifting him again and Sherlock managed to stand on his feet. He leaned into John as they shuffled along the path, through the forest, and back up to the cabin.


End file.
